


Darkness Falls On Hyperion Heights

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hyperion Heights (Once Upon a Time), Smut, Supernatural Elements, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: When Librarian and Scholar Belle French arrives in Hyperion Heights in search of an artifact stolen from the British Museum and to enlist the help of Detective Weaver in that search, events in the Heights go from mildly intruiging to dangerously terrifying. Can Belle and Detective Weaver find the truth before time runs out?
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Darkness Falls On Hyperion Heights

Thunder rolled overhead and Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain. They were huge, fat, tepid globules that fell from a slate gray sky that was fast becoming almost black, and not yet the sheet of water that was promised in the weather forecast. Weaver knew that - as they would have said in his native Glasgow - it was in the post.

He took a long, lasting look along the street opposite to Roni’s Bar. Daytime drinking for the next few days, if he wanted to be social, which was rare. He was on the late shift, six till two, not that he ever really stopped working. One thing about Weaver above all else, he was always on the go - always watching.

With a sigh he turned and hurried into the forty-second precinct building, where he almost immediately bumped into his partner. Rogers appeared to have been waiting for him, pacing the foyer for some time, judging by the look of relief that came over the desk sergeant’s face, and the way Rogers’ shoulders slumped as he sighed when he set eyes on Weaver.

“You _do_ know what time it is, right?” Rogers said by way of greeting.

Weaver glanced at the clock. “Had to call in and _see_ a guy before coming in,” he said absently

“One of your CIs?” Rogers asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but… yes.”

“Of course it’s my business. I’m your bloody partner!”

“Then start behaving like one instead of my _mother_.” Weaver retorted. The day was _not_ getting off to a good start.

“There’s someone waiting for you, in our office,” Rogers said.

“So you’re out here,” he emphasized his words with cutting motions of his hands, “instead of in there talking to them… why?”

“Because she didn’t want to _talk_ to me. She was polite enough about it, but made it pretty obvious that she would only talk to _you_.” Rogers answered. “Said she came straight from the airport, and judging from the number of suitcases we had to stow in the interview room, plans on staying quite a while.”

Weaver sighed, and shaking his head said, “All right. I’ll see what she wants,” he began to head toward his office, then shot back over his shoulder, “Mean time, Rogers, how about some coffee? It’s fuckin’ miserable out there.”

He ignored Rogers’ huff and headed into his office, snatching up a file from the basket on the door and flipping it open as he went through the doorway without raising his eyes from the paperwork.

“Detective Weaver?”

It was the accent that struck him first, and drew his eyes up from the file. Then, the breath went out of him in a rush. He couldn’t have said what he expected, but she wasn’t it. She was dressed in a golden yellow, floral patterned dress, which fit the curves of her body perfectly, and flared at the waist - he noted as she stood up to offer him a handshake - to fall loosely about her thighs to just above her knees. The dress was sleeveless, and probably afforded little protection from the chill that had settled in with the storm.

Remembering himself a moment later, he flipped the file closed and took her hand in his to accept the handshake. He hadn’t been wrong about the dress.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It seems as though my partner neglected to tell me your name, Miss?”

“French,” she answered, not taking her chilled hand from the warmth of his. “Belle French.”

“Well, Miss French, please don’t keep standing on my account.” He dropped the file into the tray on his desk, and turned toward the door. “I can get you some cof—.”

“Actually, I’d prefer tea,” she interrupted adding somewhat bashfully as he turned back to look at her, “if you have it.”

“O’ course,” he said, and sticking his head around the office door he fixed the nearest uniform with a baleful stare and ordered. “You, find Rogers’ and get him to bring a tea along with my coffee.” He was about to head back into the office when a thought occurred to him, and he added, “And tell him from me, none of that shite he fob the suspects off with either. Something halfway decent. Go over to Roni’s if he has to.”

The startled young officer nodded, with a half terrified expression on his face, and scurried away to do as he was told, even before Weaver ducked back inside the office.

“You certainly have a way with words, Detective,” Miss French said as he returned to his desk.

“So I’m told,” he answered, settling himself into his chair, leaning back slightly to once more take in the small brunette in front of him, unable to ignore her obvious beauty, and seemingly having a hard time not to be affected by it as well. He cleared his throat after a while and asked, “So, what brings you to Hyperion Heights?”

He watched as Miss French picked up a leather satchel he hadn’t noticed, set it on her lap, and rummaged around in it for a moment. Then, she handed him a photograph.

He looked down at its glossy surface, taking in what looked like a large black arrowhead, laid on a piece of cloth next to a measuring tape. Its length from tip to the chipped butt end was five inches long. The surface of it seemed to shimmer, to ripple in a way that made him feel deeply uncomfortable for no reason he could put his finger on. Still, he wasn’t sure why what was obviously an archaeological artifact, had anything to do with him. 

“Very nice, Miss French,” he said, handing back the photograph, glad to be rid of it, and forced himself to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the Hyperion Heights Police Department.”

“It’s not, Detective Weaver,” she said by way of an answer. “It’s not very nice at all. Most people that have been in its presence are profoundly disturbed by it… and it’s been stolen.”

“Stolen,” Weaver echoed at just the moment that the junior officer brought in a tray with two steaming mugs, a little jug of milk and a small bowl of sugar with a spoon stuck into it. He nodded to the young officer, and then gestured to the tray of beverages set down on the table. “Help yourself,” he said to Miss French. Then waited while she poured a drop of Milk into her tea. Only once they both had their drinks, and she had wrapped her hands around the mug in a way he found strangely endearing, did he prompted her to go on.

“Yes,” she said, confirming the object in question had been stolen. “From the British Museum. I work there.”

“Then surely the police department you should be informing of the theft is the London Metropolitan,” he suggested, “Not a force half way across the world.” He stopped as she shook her head.

“They weren’t interested,” she said.

“So, what, you thought you’d go chasing after it by yourself?” he found he was holding his breath.

“Detective Weaver,” she began, and he thought she sounded as though she was being overly patient with him. “The missing item is priceless. An ancient artifact of enormous archaeological and anthropological significance, and despite its… reputation,” he cocked an eyebrow at that but she continued unperturbed, “I could not let the theft go without investigation.” She pulled a journal of some sort out of the same satchel as before, that she still cradled on her lap, and set it on top of his desk beside the photograph. It was obviously well used, many of the pages had been turned time and time again, and in places cuttings almost spilled from the book where their folding had become less than perfect. “So yes,” she went on, and sounded irritated, “I went ‘chasing after it,’ as you so eloquently put it. I have spent months and months investigating numerous dead ends and some more promising leads that have left me with more questions than answers.”

“So why here?” he asked. “Why me?”

“Because those investigations led me to this little neighborhood of yours,” she said. “And you, sir, like the artifact in question, have a rather large… reputation, which most certainly precedes you.”

* * *

It had taken perhaps another thirty or forty minutes to persuade Detective Weaver to agree to look into the case and to provide her with whatever help, whatever leads he uncovered, but Belle wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to hold her breath.

He talked a good talk, but something within her knew that he had no intention of walking the walk to go along with it.

Belle rubbed her eyes with a sigh, and looked around at the hotel room she was in. It was basic at best, but at least it was clean. She could have looked further afield for a better hotel, closer in to Seattle’s city center for example, but she didn’t want to be so far from where the trail had led her, and so had settled for the only hotel that was available in Hyperion Heights itself.

She sat down on the side of the bed, and then, as she was wont to do lay back and curled up on her side and pulled out the notebook from the satchel that she had set beside the bed, along with a pen. She opened the journal to the next blank page - and noted that she would soon need to purchase a new journal - and began to chronicle her meeting with Detective Weaver; her impressions of him, and the next steps she might have to take in search of the stolen head of the Spear of Camlann.

It had been a complete accident of fate that had brought her to Hyperion Heights. For almost six months, no matter what avenue of investigation she pursued, the trail had gone cold and she began to think she would never be able to find the missing artifact. Then, while cataloging the Dark Ages exhibits and texts, she came upon a truly obscure version of the Arthuriad of which, in all her years as a scholar and archaeologist, she had never previously been aware.

To be certain that she hadn’t taken herself off on a fool’s errand, she peered again at the badly reproduced photograph that showed the text. It was written in the English of the Dark Ages, and the hand that had set down the account was spidery at best, and in places took many moments to read the intended words, even though she had already written a rudimentary translation in the later pages of her journal.

_Swá fæder ond dóc dyde beadu æt gefilde Camlann, se táhspura Caliburn áhniend clēafan wiðinnan bodiġ Mordredh, swá héafod ahyfend gardena wiðinnan Brytenwealda…_

Belle stopped squinting at the photograph, setting it down as she sat up and reached for the note book in which she kept all of her findings and flipped to the page on which she had written her translation, and beneath, her more detailed thoughts on what she had read.

Anyone that knew the Legend of King Arthur, in any one of its many forms and re-tellings knew of the rivalry that grew between father and son even after they were partially reconciled against Morded’s mother - Arthur’s sister, or half-sister in some versions - knew that both the King and the pretender had been mortally wounded on the field of Camlann. Before she had discovered this text, however, Belle - and she suspected few others - had known of the damage wrought to each of the weapons involved in the final battle, nor that the tip of each had lodged with the bodies of the two men. Nor did many know that each had been removed and preserved. Belle had known nothing if it until she had unearthed the fragile pages in the archive of the British Museum, apparently as forgotten as the artifact itself.

She flipped the page of the book to the next page, on which she had reproduced and translated the words on the page which spoke of the anguish of the author as he documented his dismay at having to bind the woman he had loved to the blade he had made of the broken portion of the sword of legend…

“In order to contain the darkness wrought inside of her,” she murmured, reading aloud the words she had written, letting her thoughts go as she did. “Never shall I forgive myself for my lack of foresight which allowed this - which _I_ allowed. I can only hope that my intervention is in time, and that the balance of its power, in the tip of the Spear is enough.”

It was far fetched at best. She was not a superstitious person, and certainly had cause enough throughout her life to abandon childish games, belief in Santa Claus, fairies, and the existence of magic, for good or evil at an early age. However, something about this account, and about the chain of access that showed who had viewed this document, when and where, had somehow made a believer out of her. Investigating living persons was, after all, a far easier undertaking than piecing together the events of something over 1500 years ago.

Turning the page once more, she stared at the drawing she had made - a copy from the pages she had studied - of a dagger with a wave edged blade, highly decorative along its length, beside and around the etching of a name, which as she looked, she could have sworn the letters swam, wavered and changed.


End file.
